


a bag of bones and wilted skin and trauma

by literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte



Category: Marble Hornets
Genre: Angst, Dissociation, Emotional Hurt, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-11
Updated: 2014-11-11
Packaged: 2018-02-24 23:26:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2600246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte/pseuds/literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim opens the door; he shakes Jay's shoulder, looks into eyes that turn even more gray and pale in the bleary lighting, and shakes him again. The bathroom is damp and yellow and brimming with static, and too small for the both of them.</p><p>His eyes – hazy and unblinking and wet, stare right through Tim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a bag of bones and wilted skin and trauma

**Author's Note:**

> another short sad fic from me....wow....who wouldve guessed. marble hornets is so very relatable to me when it comes to having fucked up brain shit going on and i cannot express how much i relate to jay when hes "out of it" entries 72 or 74, i cant remember which.
> 
> why are bathrooms the number one place for breakdowns, why is it always in a bathroom, i dont know.

Jay's hands shake as he reaches for the doorknob. He can do this. He can grab this fucking doorknob, he can walk out of the bathroom, and he can tell Tim, “Thank you for saving my life,” or, “Do we have anything to eat?” His stomach votes for the latter.

He will get out of this bathroom, out of the overpowering smell of soap that makes his head spin. (Did he shower? He doesn't feel clean.) He will do this, by himself, this impossible task of existing.

He makes the mistake of blinking, and _it's_ there, behind his eyelids, in his head, latched to his brain. His mouth opens and closes, and he makes a noise like a wild animal being kicked. (Does he say anything at all? He can't feel his tongue.) Static ebbs and flows through the room – no, it doesn't flow, it _throbs, it howls, it rips through him._

In a matter of seconds, Jay's back at step one, curled up on the toilet seat. At least he isn't rocking on the bathroom mat again. 

For several minutes, he doesn't dare try blinking again. His eyes sting. A knock on the door makes him flinch, and Tim calls out from the other side, “Jay? Jay? Are you alright in there?”

His eyes start to water.

“I'm fine,” Jay tries to force out, but only manages a weak gurgling noise that hurts his throat. Tim keeps talking, but he can't hear him, or distinguish what words he's saying. 

Jay's miles away and hanging onto his own brain by a thread. The static presses against his temples. It could be his own fingers, trying to root him back to his body, but it feels like static all the same, hurts just like a loud blur of noise.

He can't get up, let alone stand. His body feels too heavy, too weighed down. He can't muster up the energy to blink, even if what he really wants to do is rest his head against the counter and sleep until this horrible mess is over and done with.

The toilet is cold at his back, and it keeps him awake. Awake, but not conscious.

This morning (might have been last night, a month ago, or in a dream) he laid on a stiff mattress and dreamed about opening up his wasted body and spilling out the horrible years on the hotel carpet. He imagined gutting himself, removing each organ like a piece of evidence in a crime scene. Blood on his hands would be warm and he needed to know there was something inside him – and then he would be free of the guilt and horror molding and festering inside him.

He would be free to get up, walk around, and open that bathroom door. 

Bodies are not meant to be dissected with the very hands attached to them, however. These thoughts should terrify him, a faint, worn-out consciousness in the back of his mind tells him. These thoughts should worry him.

Jay can't hear it. He can't hear Tim's concerned voice asking, “...want a granola bar, something, anything, you haven't eaten all day and you haven't left that bathroom in forever! I get you need some time alone, but...”

For an inexplicable amount of “time alone,” he sits on the toilet. His legs cramp up. His head crawls out through the vents.

Tim opens the door; he shakes Jay's shoulder, looks into eyes that turn even more gray and pale in the bleary lighting, and shakes him again. The bathroom is damp and yellow and brimming with static, and too small for the both of them.

His eyes – hazy and unblinking and wet, stare right through Tim.

He can't hear the running faucet as Tim washes his face in front of the mirror and looks at himself. (How does he do it? Look at himself, that is.)

Jay doesn't feel like he has a self anymore. He might have lost it, somewhere along the bloody trail he's left behind, perhaps in the park where everyone seems to end up. His self must still be there, having never stopped recording for an old student film no one but himself cares about anymore.

The sound of water hitting the sink makes Jay physically sick. He lurches off the toilet and crumbles on the bathroom tile. He's aware of warm hands rubbing up and down his back as he gags and throws up empty air.

There's too much empty air inside of him to get everything out at once. His fingers curl against the unyielding floor. Too afraid to blink, Jay snaps the strings tethering him to this bag of bones and wilting skin and trauma, and it's like a glitch clipping out of a map.

Its long black tendrils -


End file.
